Frog and Toad are Friends

This is not a eulogy. (Thank God.)

One of my favorite series of books as a child was the “Frog and Toad” series by Arnold Lobel. The tales of the two amphibious friends that couldn’t have been more different from each other hold a special place in my memories of childhood. The one tall and calm and capable, the other short and intense and unsure, the two balanced each other out, making for good times and a lasting friendship.

In one of their adventures, Frog and Toad read a book about knights in shining armor fighting dragons. The pair begins to wonder if they are as brave as the knights in the book. They look in a mirror and decide that they do indeed look brave, but they decide to climb a nearby mountain together as proof. Along the trail to bravery, they escape a deadly avalanche, avoid being eaten by a snake, and are forced to flee from a hungry hawk. In the end they run home and hide, deciding that they are both brave enough just as they are.

I am not skilled with a hammer. When using a screwdriver, my tongue sticks out in concentration, and in my head I hear the chanting rhyme righty-tighty, lefty-loosey repeated over and over until the task is complete. I’ve never cut a straight line through a piece of wood, I can’t unclog a toilet without soaking myself in poo-water, and the only finish work I am good at is not an appropriate topic for open discussion. The closest I can get to being a handy type of man is bending over and showing some butt-crack.

In addition to being little better than useless when it comes to fixing things, I am not at all brave, sure, or tough. Yes, I shoot guns, I can start a fire with one match, and at the age of forty-one I ran a marathon with very little training (okay, no training, because I was lazy), but I lost a lot of fights as a kid, snakes still bring out the little girl in me, and the only car chase I’ve ever been involved in was when some local teenagers wouldn’t stop harassing us with toilet paper and window peeping.

I won’t ever win any type of manly award. My beard refuses to grow past a patchy stubble, I don’t like wearing clothes for more than an eight hour stretch, and I shower three to four times a day. Just walking into a Banana Republic makes me horny, I know all the words (and some sweet dance moves) to “Party in the USA” by Miley Cyrus, and I wear my emotions like a day-glow-yellow turtleneck. I’m not gay, but there is a lot of drama queen in me.

Also worthy of note is the fact that I’ve never been given a cool nickname. My nieces and nephews used to call me “Bruiser,” but that was probably because they saw me trip over a shadow and cry at the resulting black and blue marks. The name didn’t stick long enough to count anyway.

I am not sure if all of the above makes me Frog or Toad, but it does make me in need of a good friend, a friend that will balance my shortcomings and find strength in my weakness.

Enter Captain Rob.

To start, he has a great nickname (no one will ever call me Captain).

Captain Rob can swing a hammer with precision and purpose, he cuts a straight line every time, and his tongue stays hidden inside his mouth whenever he’s doing any of the many great and powerful things that great and powerful men can do. He plays a convincing pirate, can pilot anything on wheels or water, and grows a real beard faster than I can turn a corner running.

Rob is everything that I am not and more. He is also a lot of what I aspire to be but will never become.

When Rob is around, I am at my bravest, coolest, and most capable. In his company I’ve steered a big boat (well, it was big for me), climbed a couple of mountains, and been chased by a hurricane. I’ve been twenty fathoms under the sea, played with seals in the whitecaps around the Isles of Shoals, and squealed with delight through my scuba mask as I’ve witnessed the rippling colors of a squid in the dark and frigid water on a winter night. I’ve driven a convertible down to Key West, sped across a frozen lake on a snowmobile, and been to more than one Guster concert. Together we’ve camped on a lighthouse island, crossed over to the wrong side of the tracks in the middle of the night, and spent the night with the Swedish Ladies Hiking Team atop Mount Chocurua in the White Mountains.

But…While in The Captain’s company, I’ve hammered dimples into a lot of wood, thrown up a gut full of banana milk and chocolate donuts into the sea, unwittingly walked through the middle of a transvestite gathering in a hotel bar, and proven myself useless on more than one manly project. I’ve wounded myself with power tools, grimaced and whined at the burden of hard labor, tripped over extension cords, and handed over the wrong wrench on more than one occasion.

Although I have felt inadequate in the presence of many men, around Rob I don’t feel any sort of need to measure up. Instead, I feel a distinct and pleasant need to be myself. Our relationship grew strong not because we share interests, talents, and experience, but rather because of our differences in what we bring to the table of friendship. Rob makes it comfortable for me to be me, a favor that I try to return. Even when he calls me “Sally,” I hear an amused affection in Rob’s voice.

For all his muscles and grit, Rob is, on the inside, stuffed with cotton candy. I once watched him sit patiently for well over an hour as my young daughter carefully painted each of his nails in bright shades of pink and purple, coated his face with cheeky blush, and filled his hair with clips and ribbons. He has carried each of my sleeping children in his arms, and shouldered them while trick or treating on more than one Halloween night (dressed each time as a pirate, of course). He has played their games, traded jokes and tickles with them, and spoiled them with unexpected presents and sweets. He will forever be their favorite captain.

Rob’s heart is bigger than his chest. At the lowest point of my life, when I felt that I couldn’t go on in the wake of my brother’s death, Rob spent hours at my side. Much of that time was spent installing the wood flooring that Elizabeth and I had ambitiously purchased without much thought to its installation. His craftsmanship was indeed an appreciated service, but the humble hours spent together on our back deck one day after lunch was a godsend for Elizabeth and me. Rob listened quietly as we poured our grief, confusion, and despair at his feet. After taking it all in, he shared his own heartbreaking experience, the sudden loss of his brother Ricky years earlier. With a wounded voice, he shared all that he had felt and learned from a moment in time that will never leave him. Covered in sawdust and tears, Rob bore our burden with us, and mourned with us as we mourned. I loved him even more for that.

Knowing Rob like I do, he would shake off my sincere expression of love, appreciation, and praise as nothing more than the sensitive fabrication of his dear friend “Sally.”

And that is Rob to anyone that knows him. He is a man without guile that carries within him a bare-chested spirit, because he has a habit of giving the shirt off his back to someone in need.

Earlier this week, my good friend Captain Rob posted a photo of the tugboat on which he serves as first mate. The caption read “Outbound from Cape May northbound. Hope this thing makes it!” I have seen Rob post photos from his floating office many times over the past few years, but this one gave me a few moments of pause. I know that Rob is a capable, brave, and experienced seaman, one that doesn’t throw such comments about without cause. The business of my day eventually pushed the foreboding feeling to a dark corner of my mind, and in time it was forgotten.

Two days later, at an ungodly hour, an incoming text vibrated me out of a deep sleep. Pulled from the darkness of dreams into the bright light of technology (and without my glasses), I could barely make out the sender’s name. It had come from Neil, a good friend to both Rob and myself.

Why would Neil text me at this hour? My birthday has come and gone. It isn’t Christmas, and there is nothing special about today.

Rob.

I dropped the phone and rolled back into the warm cocoon of blankets, unwilling to don my glasses and read the message that was sure to be bad news about Captain Rob. I stared into the darkness, listening to Elizabeth breathing softly beside me. My phone rested a million miles away on the nightstand as I tried not to envision a world without my dear friend living in it.

How would I ever be brave again?

Many minutes and a very hot shower later, I summoned the dregs of my courage and picked up my phone to read Neil’s text.

Rob’s tug sank in a storm off the coast of Rhode Island. Rob and the crew had no time to pull on their emergency suits, only life vests.

My knees buckled; I fell back and sat on the edge of the tub, bile rising within my throat.

They were rescued by a fishing boat. (Hey Neil, next time start with the good news.)

My head felt light with relief, and a smile spread its way across my face. Rob’s phone was most likely at the bottom of the ocean, but I called and left him a voicemail anyway, wanting him to eventually share in the joy I was feeling to know that he was alive.

Thanks to a wise and wonderful wife, I was soon on a plane heading east to surprise my friend with an unannounced crashing of his “Man Overboard” party. It was an absolute adrenaline rush, to throw my arms around my dear friend and tell him that I love him. To see him standing before me, dressed in the lifejacket that had kept him afloat, laughing, smiling, and living, struck me as a blessing from heaven, one that filled me with happiness to bursting.

Rob told me the harrowing tale of the sinking, and how within a span of just a few minutes he and the crew went from marveling at the pounding waves to swimming for their lives in them, wondering if rescue would arrive.

Later, during a quiet moment together, I asked the bravest man I know, “Were you scared?”

“You know Matt, I’ve never been more scared in my life,” Rob answered in a serious, my-life-course-has-been-forever-altered tone.

And in that moment, I decided that Rob and I are brave enough just as we are.

Love you Toad. (Or am I Toad?)

Sockin' It To Tyranny

This morning I read an online article written by a "momtrepeneur" who was upset that the new Entrepreneur Barbie isn't wearing yoga pants and a pony tail, and that her plastic eyes didn't exude the passion of a working mom.

I then read an article about a pregnant woman in Sudan that has been sentenced to death (after receiving 100 lashes) for apostasy.

Troubling times indeed.

I reflected on both women and their plights, and came to the conclusion that the world was becoming a discouraging cesspool. The thought came to mind that I had been better off back in the days when I read nothing but books and avoided the news altogether. Feeling that something must be done to set the world back on a happy course, I wondered what I alone could do to help this poor woman to escape her woeful situation. My purpose of thought was singular: I needed to call justice down upon the godless animals that call themselves human beings while oppressing, subjugating, and misguiding their own kind.

I started to write an angry letter, unsure of where it could be sent that would make a difference. The resulting flurry of words felt too light and empty for such devils; I needed something that packed more punch. But how could I, a single individual with limited resources, conquer such ruthless dictators? How could I get the nation, the continent, the world even, to stand up and stare down these brutes?

As I pondered the injustice that exists in the world and what I could possibly do to right such a terrible wrong, a memory from childhood came to mind. Years ago at the age of eight, I bought a Luke Skywalker X-Wing pilot action figure. He was dressed in a bright orange flight suit, wore a white helmet decorated with the red emblem of the Rebel Alliance, and his right sock was pulled up above the top of his shiny black flight boot. I still have that action figure, tucked away in a box somewhere in my office at home.

Wait, what?

It’s true, my Luke Skywalker looked as though he had gotten dressed in a hurry before that unforgettable attack on the Death Star. When donning his socks, he must have pulled the right one up higher than he had the left one, leaving it to stick out above the top of his boot. It also appeared as though he had tucked the cuff of his flight suit inside the sock.

The image of that disheveled action figure from more than thirty years ago was inspirational. Luke had been a young and inexperienced pilot, but when the moment came calling he had found an incredible, course-of-history-altering amount of courage, and with it he had beaten back a dark overlord that threatened the future of a galaxy far, far away and a long time ago.

And if my toy Luke was to be believed, he did it with one sock sticking out of his boot, the cuff of his flight suit tucked inside, like a bicycle courier in deep space.

And so my one man campaign against tyranny began anew, this time with a letter much more focused, a letter with harsh words for strong-arm despots.

Dear Tyrants (past and present),

How dare you manipulate the forward progress of humankind with your programs of hate, misinformation, and mind control! You should be dragged from your luxurious homes, calfskin office chairs, and exotic cars, out into the streets, where you can be held accountable to the people for your crimes against humanity!

You play with the future of your own people, and then count your money behind closed doors, rinsing your hands clean in the ill-gotten gains of your evil agendas that you hide in plain sight. Would that I alone could try you for your crimes, but so great is your tyrannical hold on the world, that it will take nations to drive you back to the dust from whence you came.

I refuse to sit back and allow you to win. This is a warning shot across the bow of your black-sailed dreadnought; if you do not cease from oppressing the good and honest people of this world at once, I will be forced into greater, more violent and terrible action.

Signed,

Matthew Deane (a citizen of this good world)

P.S. I don’t have my receipt, but would you please send me a replacement Luke Skywalker X-Wing fighter pilot action figure that doesn’t have mismatched feet? The one I bought in 1978 must have been part of a bad batch, because it looks like Luke got dressed for the Death Star battle in a hurry. I just don’t think it is a true representation of a good X-Wing pilot; a good X-Wing pilot would be sheveled (rather than disheveled), because the people of the Rebel Alliance were looking to the pilots for the security of their future, and I don’t think a pilot with one sock pulled up above his boot and over his flight suit cuff inspires such security.

Oh, and your Entrepreneur Barbie needs some yoga pants and more passionate eyes.

Thanks!

West 4 Independence

"I think I could do this," I whispered.

"I was just thinking the same thing..." Ella replied, her own voice barely audible.

I reached out and took her hand in mine. My eyes wandered across open fields, up mountains, and  towards the big blue sky.

This simple exchange occurred two years ago this week, while driving through Eastern Utah on our way to spend a few days with Ella's family at Bear Lake. We had already spent a few days in Oakley, relaxing at the family cabin. You wouldn't think that surrounding ourselves with two dozen or so nieces and nephews would be a relaxing enterprise, and in the past it hadn't been for me. But that year I had embraced it, and found the experience to be a restful one. We had spent the evening of Independence Day at the Oakley Rodeo, where we watched the bucking, riding, roping, and when it was over, the colorful flashing of fireworks overhead.

I searched my memory for a more patriotic 4th of July but could not find one.

Bear Lake was sunny, hot, and metamorphic. I had brought the first half of a manuscript that I was working on, and it was passed around to brothers and sisters-in law. A discussion ensued one afternoon, as we sat in the sun and watched the kid-cousins playing in the water. Common ground was uncovered, and for the first time in an eighteen-year marriage I felt kinship with Ella's family.

I flew home two days later, leaving Ella and the kids to stay in Utah for a couple more weeks. During that time the cell towers between us crackled and sparked with excitement as Ella and I discussed our plans to move west. It was unreal; we were the last people on the list of those destined to move to Utah. We had long ago fallen in step with those bent on stereotyping, ranting, and speculating when it came to “Utards.”

By the time Ella and the kids were home, my excitement had melted in the hot humid air of New Hampshire. We would not be moving; we ran a successful business, lived in a nice home, enjoyed the company of good friends, and loved our sweet little town in spite of its growing pains and ever-increasing tax burden. Wasn’t the thought to move west just a knee-jerk reaction to a restful vacation? Would living in Utah be as wonderful as visiting had been? I imagined my doubts until they grew into the joy-killing weeds of reality. I informed the Salt Lake City based company that was eager to meet me that we were no longer seeking an immediate move to Utah. Ella and the kids were deflated.

Summer ended, school started, and happiness struggled. We pushed our way through the autumn months in slow motion, still hoping for a reasonable end to the perfect storm of emotions that had raged since Jared’s suicide two years earlier. I wrote sporadically, never imagining that I would actually finish my account of the troubled relationship I had shared with my little brother, and the shame that I felt at having abandoned him whenever he had truly needed me. I longed for a sweeping, cleansing change, but fear and the unknown stood in the way. Driving the winding, canopied roads of New England became a metaphor for life; I couldn’t see where I was going.

An unexpected email, a couple of phone calls, and a flight to Salt Lake City later that winter seemed (at first) to confirm my doubts. I had come to meet with that same interested company on their dime, but upon entering their office I knew in an instant that it wasn’t to be. I threw the interview and left the building. Looking up at the grey layer of winter smog, I felt depressed, lost, and let down.

And then I accepted a ride up to Summit County. There the sky was blue, the sun was bright, and the mountain air was clean. Snow covered the ground, but I was warm. It felt like home. I called Ella and told her that yes, we could do it, but it would have to be at 6500 ft.

Soon our house in New Hampshire was on the market, and so was my business. Both sold with little trouble, each to good friends looking for their own sweeping, cleansing change. Ella flew west, and after a couple of days searching around the valley, she found the house and neighborhood that had been waiting for us.

We moved in just before the 4^th of July, one long and winding year after that moment of clarity we had shared in the car. One of the first things we did after unloading the truck was to buy tickets for the Oakley Rodeo. As it began, several girls rode into the arena on horseback carrying the Stars and Stripes. The crowd went wild as the flags fluttered and a song about “Home” began to play over the loudspeakers.

One year later.

Ella has made our home comfortable and happy, and she has worked hard while I have scribbled. When she goes missing I know to look for her on the back deck, where she is sure to be sitting on the couch swing, staring up at the mountains with a smile on her lips. The kids have settled in; they’ve made new friends, tried new things, and admit to loving it here.

My book is finished. People love it, and I refuse to check sales figures. I like to drive through Summit County; out here I can see where I am going.

I am doing this; we are doing this.